THE FRUIT OF THE FURROW 



THE kiss of the sun had drawn the frost from the soil. Here 

 and there on the prairies bunches of buff baptisia were seen. 

 This is a wild April bloom. The young grass was as fresh 

 as the dawn. Poised on its delicate stem the wind-flower 

 spread its beautiful bloom above the encompassing verdure. 

 The air was vibrant with the musical notes of the meadow- 

 larks. In the early autumn the larks fly about in companies, 

 sometimes as many as fifty, or more, in a flock. They stride 

 through the grass as pompous as knights of the olden time. 

 Now and then a yellow-breast suitor seems to be alone; but 

 it is not good for a lark to be alone, especially in the world's 

 spring time, and near him, on an April day, somewhere in the 

 grass you will find the lady lark. Like her sex of the human 

 species, she is less talkative and more modest than her mate, 

 and like the other lady (or is this like the other lady now-a- 

 days?) she waits to be wooed. Some bachelor may raise a 

 question here, but this is no place for idle gossip. Argument 

 would spoil the lark's whistle and deodorize the most fragrant 

 flower. It is better to love and listen, to laugh and sing. 

 The logic of love has led us all farther into the sweet lessons 

 of life than the love of logic. No critic can scold as much 

 into a man in a lifetime as a lark can sing into him in an 

 hour. Let the lark sing. Let the critic listen. The lark's 

 song will teach him sweetness. The lark's step will give 

 him the secret of success. If the lark can not get to where he 

 wants to go with his feet, he takes to wing. That is his 



